Sharing the First Chapter of My Novel, Nugax – Thoughts Welcome!

[Teodor Tabirca]

Hi everyone,
I’m thrilled to share the opening chapter of my novel, Nugax. The book is an introspective exploration of survival and morality, blending supernatural elements with a realistic, grounded world.

I’d love your feedback on the tone, pacing, or philosophical underpinnings of this first chapter. Does it resonate with you? Does it pull you in? Any thoughts are welcome!

 

I. Hope dies last

 

“Hello?” 

The man balanced his phone between his shoulder and ear, bagging his groceries with his free hand.

Kit picked up a few essentials on a sunny Saturday afternoon. In his late twenties, living alone, he led a quiet, uneventful life. While he was close with his family, he hadn’t built many connections outside of that.

He emptied the counter almost absentmindedly, absorbed in the conversation.

“Yes, that’s right.” he replied, his hands pausing in mid-motion.

His gaze dropped to the floor, eyes widening in shock.

“When…when did this happen?” he asked, his voice strained. 

He suddenly decided there was no point in continuing the conversation. He shoved the remaining groceries into his bag, pulled out cash from his pocket, and rushed out of the store, leaving without his change.

 

∞ ∞ ∞

 

The crimson sunset draped everything in shadow, void of beauty. While it wasn’t to blame, the context warped its glow, casting a sinister tint over what might have otherwise been a peaceful scene.

The darkly-dressed crowd followed the proceedings in silence, unsure of how to behave. A heavy silence hung in the air as heads bowed and shoulders shook with silent sobs, each person lost in their private grief. 

“As we gather here today…” the man of God began, addressing the somber occasion that brought them together. He looked over the bowed heads before him with quiet empathy, maintaining a calm composure, as if hoping to offer a measure of warmth to those in need.

Kit stood near the edge of the empty grave, holding the hand of a thin, frail-looking woman. Both kept their eyes downcast, rimmed with tears. 

“...unfortunate and untimely, casting us all into sorrow…” they heard faintly, though their attention drifted in and out of the speech, more aware of their own thoughts than the words spoken.

Kit tightened his grip on his sister’s hand, bitterness rising in his throat. How could they be gone? His parents were too young to die, their lives snuffed out in a tragic car accident. The loss felt like a raw wound, sudden and deeply unjust.

Why? Why in God’s name did this have to happen? 

Kit had never been certain whether God or an afterlife truly existed. If they did, he might have found solace in imagining his parents in a better place. But could the same be said for all the innocent souls taken too soon?

And what of those who were spared an untimely demise, but had to grow up carrying their losses into adulthood, bearing them for decades until their final days? 

If all were supposedly equal in the eyes of God, why were things this way? And if they weren’t, why was that?

Kit struggled to answer the questions racing through his mind, barely able to bear the pain that coursed through him.

He eased his grip, suddenly reminded of his sister’s illness, which weakened her, leaving her frail and delicate.

Why are you testing us so, God? he wondered, unsure if anyone would answer. What is the point of all this?

He searched desperately for purpose, a reason to endure—but the world’s suffering only seemed cruel, arbitrary.

Are we truly that indebted to you for the sins of our supposed ancestors? Is Divine justice really that fair and right, punishing a fault born out of recklessness? So much so that countless generations are still paying for that one mistake?

And if that’s truly the case… he wondered, uneasy about his thoughts. …are you really as kind and merciful as they say?

He looked down into the darkened grave where his parents would soon be lowered, feeling his heart tighten and harden.

Are you even there at all?

 

∞ ∞ ∞

 

The now-cold body lay motionless on the hospital bed, showing no signs of ever moving again. Its eyes would have continued to pierce unflinchingly upwards, had they not been shut by the one who had guarded it closely for the past several hours.

Kit sat equally still beside it, shoulders slouched, his gaze vacant, not really feeling much anymore. The recent pain had dulled his senses, oversaturating his capacity to suffer—or at least to consciously feel it. 

The rain tapped softly against the window, casting shadows that drifted across the room, none of which mattered or moved him in the slightest. The weather echoed his feelings—or rather, his lack thereof—as they continued their numbing trajectory, leaving him staring vacantly through the wall.

His sister had battled a terrible disease for most of her life, often seeming to get better, only to be drawn back into excruciating suffering shortly after. Her family invested in every conceivable treatment, both standard and experimental, repeatedly finding reasons for hope. Yet, the harder they fought for her life, the slimmer her chances became.

She had been a kindergarten teacher, dedicating herself to giving young children a warm, nurturing start in life—especially since she could never have any of her own. This reality pained Kit, who had always regarded her as a uniquely kind soul, one of the most suited for motherhood.

Yet, as is often the case with kind souls, her life had never been easy. Finally, after a lifetime of struggles and adversity, Elke was granted an untimely death—a harsh and unjust reward for a life spent making others’ lives better.

But it would be unfair to expect life—or the universe—to care, least of all for simple individuals.

This is the timeline God has abandoned. Kit thought, recalling a phrase he’d often seen online, used to rationalize the senseless and chaotic.

He understood from a young age that death was part of life, but no part of this knowledge softened the loss of those he loved. Now, there was no one left to hold dear, no one to care for him. 

He felt so... so unbearably lonely.

What purpose remained? What meaning did his life hold now? What was he living for?

 

∞ ∞ ∞

 

“I’m sorry, Kit. I know you’ve been through a lot lately, but the reasons have just piled up. On one hand, there are your frequent absences; on the other, you’ve seemed more withdrawn, and your work has been, well, less consistent,” his manager said, shifting uncomfortably. “It’s not really any one thing, but with the company in a tough spot, we’ve had to make some cuts. As much as I hate to say it, you objectively fit the profile the most. Others have simply been performing better lately. I’m sorry, but we have to let you go,” he finished, his gaze drifting to avoid Kit’s eyes.

Kit stood there, listening to it all without moving a muscle, caught between surprise, disappointment, and the persistent numbness that had become a defining part of his life. After everything he’d endured, he was now losing his job too. It felt as if the world was determined to break him down, pushing him closer to the edge of surrender.

By now, he couldn’t help but wonder what else could possibly go wrong. His parents’ and sister’s funerals had not come cheap, and with no financial security to fall back on, he was left to face it all alone. All three had lived on rent, leaving no property to sell or assets to ease his burdens. Though money was truly the least of his concerns, it felt like the final insult—the cherry on top of a bitter cake fate seemed determined to serve him.

“I’m afraid you’ll need to clear out your office by the end of the day. I wish you all the best,” his former manager concluded, signaling the end of their professional relationship. “Actually, you can take the rest of the day off. No worries—it’s paid. It’s the least I can do.”

Without a word, Kit turned and made his way to his desk. There wasn’t much to gather—only a few personal items he wanted to take along.

Soon, he was heading for the door, realizing this might be the last time he’d see this office or his colleagues. 

He stopped for a moment and looked around, wanting to take in the place he’d spent the last five years of his life. He hadn’t expected to feel it, but he knew he would miss it—one of the last anchors to what his life had been, until recently.

The familiar hum of office equipment and low murmur of conversations surrounded him. The scent of stale coffee and faint whiff of toner drifted in the air. The fluorescent lights flickered slightly, casting a harsh, sterile glow over the rows of cubicles.

Yet, as he stood there, the abruptness of it all—the sudden notice, the dismissal—made his heart sink. He was being left behind, alone in yet another part of his life. Everything familiar, everything even remotely dear, was slipping away. The realization left him feeling uneasy, if not hurt.

He closed his eyes for a moment, turning his head away from the office before opening them to focus on the door. Clutching his belongings to his chest, he took a deep breath and headed toward the exit. It was time to depart, to say a final, silent goodbye to this place.

 

∞ ∞ ∞

 

Kit didn’t own a car. He could have taken the metro or the bus home, but after everything he had endured over the past few days, he felt exhausted and hurt. He preferred to keep his distance from others and, if possible, be alone on the journey home.

So he decided to walk, despite the extra time it would take. After all—where was he rushing off to? Nowhere.  The long walk would give him time to process things, maybe to make peace with some of it, and—why not?—to forget. To slip deeper into the comforting numbness of his soul, which seemed, more and more, to be a preferable solution to all he was feeling.

With a heavy heart and a clouded mind, he set out, paying little attention to the world around him.

So, here we are. Mom, Dad—I really hope there’s a heaven where you’ve found peace. Elke, I wish that the most for you. But if God does exist, if everything they say about Him is true… I’m not so sure anymore. I struggle to understand His reasoning; all I seem able to perceive is a level of indifference—coldness—toward us, the less fortunate. Would He treat you well up there? Would He give you the solace, quiet, and peace you so richly deserve?

The sun began setting over the city, its light dimming and casting long shadows that stretched across the urban landscape, deepened by the maze of towering buildings Kit navigated.

Who knows? Maybe it would be better if God and heaven didn’t exist after all. Maybe an eternal silence would be the peace you truly need. No one to judge you, no one to weigh your actions, no one to hold you accountable—rightly or wrongly. True, lasting tranquility. 

Lost in thought, Kit hadn’t noticed the shadowy figure trailing him from a few blocks back. Nor did he realize that his path had strayed into quieter, more secluded alleys. Truthfully, he didn’t care—he barely found the energy to keep moving, let alone mind his direction or surroundings.

So it was, in this fog of distraction, that his soon-to-be assailant managed to catch up, pressing a knife to his throat.

“Stop,” he instructed an already halting Kit. His hands were full with the belongings he had brought from his office, so overcoming his unseen aggressor would have proven cumbersome and sluggish, or disadvantageous at the very least, given the position he was in.

“You don’t need to turn around,” the mugger continued. “And you’d do good to keep your mouth shut,” he added, hinting at unfavorable consequences otherwise.

As Kit’s awareness returned, he took in his surroundings. The back street was unfamiliar, but he sensed he was close to home. If things went south, he’d at least have a chance to reach the relative safety his home offered.

“Why don’t you drop those things nice and easy on the ground now? And don’t you go making any sudden movements if you know what’s good for you,” the thug advised him. “There we go,” he continued, somewhat satisfied, seeing Kit follow his instructions. He then proceeded to place his left hand on the back of Kit’s head while moving his knife from his victim’s throat down to between his ribs, where he gently pressed the tip of his weapon.

“Now empty your pockets. Mind you, I’m not interested in lint, I hope you do understand.”

Kit barely registered the knife at first, the dull edge pressing against his throat blending into the constant ache already pulsing through him. His mind drifted somewhere distant, his body frozen in the familiar numbness that seemed to have claimed him lately. But as the mugger’s voice grated on, the indignity of it began to pierce through his fog, a sharp ember sparking somewhere deep within. Every unfair blow life had dealt him, every insult, every loss, churned and rose to the surface, his despair slowly hardening into a fury he’d never felt before.

The assailant could feel the back of his victim’s neck tightening as anger took over him, so he prepared for the worst while saying: 

“Now, now, don’t be foolish, tough guy! I’d rather leave you in one piece, if you don’t mind me saying.”

The bandit’s easy-going, superficial demeanor, confident with his knife pressed against his victim’s rib cage, meant little to Kit. His thoughts clouded as fury overtook him, each breath growing quicker and heavier under the weight of the injustice.

In a senseless and careless display of emotional turmoil, Kit threw his elbow back, trying to hit his attacker, who was, unfortunately, much more experienced and prepared than he could ever be. His strike missed as the aggressor ducked, then drove the knife between his ribs.

“I did warn you, retard, didn’t I?!” the mugger yelled as Kit fell to his knees.

A sharp, piercing pain exploded in his side as the blade slipped between his ribs. The burning sensation spread rapidly, leaving him gasping for breath. Every heartbeat sent waves of excruciating agony through his body, and a throbbing ache began to set in, making it hard to focus. Shock gripped him, a cold sweat breaking out as he struggled to comprehend the severity of his injury. The world around him seemed to blur into a suffocating haze of pain and panic.

He didn’t have the presence of mind to notice his assailant taking off with his belongings, nor the spirit to call an ambulance. Then again, he wouldn’t have been able to afford the services anyway, even if he had considered the option.

Each faltering step left a crimson stain on the concrete, and he couldn’t shake the desperate thought that if he were to die, he wanted it to be in his own bed, away from the cold indifference of the street. His determination wavered with each pulse of pain, his body screaming to give in, yet something—some last ember of defiance—urged him to keep moving, to hold on just a little longer. 

With this solitary thought in mind, he started crawling toward his block, hoping to take the elevator up to his floor and have enough strength to rise up to the door lock, insert his key, and slide into his apartment.

A warm trail of blood marked his path as he struggled to reach his building, clutching his wound. The empty streets echoed with his ragged breaths, each step dragging him deeper into the shadows cast by flickering street lights, silent sentinels to his slow descent. The stillness pressed in on him, his movements hollow in the desolate quiet, as if the city itself turned a blind eye to his struggle. 

The lobby of his building, which he somehow managed to reach, was also empty and quiet. Silently, he crawled towards the elevator, painfully maneuvering it to get up to his floor.

Once at the right level, he fell out of the lift and used his remaining strength to reach his apartment door. He barely mustered the energy to sit high enough to unlock his flat, and once the key turned and the doorknob was released, he collapsed along with the opening door.

With a final surge of strength, he dragged himself onto the bed, his limbs cold and leaden, his body numb except for the fierce throbbing in his side. He curled in on himself, clutching his wound as tremors wracked him, each shudder sapping what little warmth he had left. 

Crying, aching, he faded out of consciousness.

Edited January 7 by Teodor Tabirca
Just now noticed the text did not paste with italics, as well - corrected that.